我当然想看他亲手写下来的情书。我知道他从不轻易许诺。想来有些后悔了，早知要来一封，若是有，我大抵日日读上一遍。

若能看着他一堆文稿里掺着几封关乎我的，我也欢喜。

我是相思里作乐，他就仿佛是用纱蒙上了眼睛，被思念扰动而视而不见。

“夜晚总是容易引起回忆，我想起了我们互发歌曲的那一天。沟通方式和平的很，他说不出凶我的话就发一首歌给我，我听着歌曲看着歌词，几日不见他可真暴躁，我似乎也没有招惹他。可如何抚平，我来来回回选了几首，最终停留在我最想说的话上，以歌回敬。答案当然是最后沉默。我们彼此心知肚明。那小客厅看来还是留着关禁闭让人冷静冷静合适。哪怕养养花似乎也是不错的。”】

“　I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness or humour my life.

I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.

I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow --the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams, and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.

I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born.

I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself.

I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart;

I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.”